Devil's Backbone
by alysrose
Summary: John Wick is backed into a corner. As everyone's eyes are on him as he races out of the city with his trusted companion running beside him, he calls someone. An old friend, an old lover, a woman who had warned him she would end his life if she saw or heard from him again. But with the whole world against him now, she was the only one he could turn to.
1. 1:1

CHAPTER ONE

. .. .

Empty Space

. .. .

On every corner was a face.

As he raced through the city of New York, the rain cascading down around him and soaking through his tarnished and stained suit, he could see people watching his every move as he ran past them. With his trusty dog companion running beside him – loyal and devoted to the bitter end – John didn't feel comforted nor reassured in that moment. He saw the sneers on their faces, a blur of expression whizzing by him, and though it was quick, he had seen it in all its glory: the glint of pure pleasure upon their faces as they realised his time was running out and wanting nothing more but to claim the prize attached to his head.

He stole a glance behind him, the figure of Winston in the distance now small and retreating the further he ran away from him.

Time was on his side in that moment, and though it wasn't reassuring as ticking sounded – an imaginary ticking bomb – in his head, growing louder and louder the longer he ran for.

An hour to get out of the city was a long time, but New York City was unpredictable and unreliable. The rain was fighting against him, causing his clothes to become heavy and distracting; an uncomfortable bulk weighing him down.

"Time's running out, Mr Wick," a voice called out in the distance and he looked for the direction of the voice. The voice had been masked by the patter of the downpour and the mass of people who walked on the sidewalk. He observed his surroundings, the voice echoing throughout the streets. His own mind was playing tricks on him, becoming another enemy who wanted him out of the picture.

It was a witch hunt in every sense. They wanted blood and they were closing in on him.

But fear never once clawed at him, the familiar sensation of it eating away at the coolness of his skin never once making his body react. Survival instinct had kicked in long before this, only in the moment when he had put a bullet hole in Santino's head. He knew as soon as the bullet exited the chamber that he would be in trouble, and that this was always going to be outcome. Winston had been kind and had given him a time limit to get out of the city; all of which he didn't and shouldn't have done, but like his dog companion who remained by his side, Winston cared for him even when he had done wrong.

The older gentleman still wanted to protect John until the end.

He came to a stop, his legs aching and protesting against any further movement. He wasn't sure of how long he was running for, but he felt the thickness of his thighs as they were pumped from running. His lungs heaved in his chest and his heartbeat furiously and violently against his ribcage. He knelt down and stroked the wet coat of his dog.

"I'm sorry, Dog."

The dog whined in response, but more so about the rain than the threat against them. He pulled out his phone and dialled the number he knew off by heart – a number he never forgot despite her harsh warning to. He placed it to his ear and listened to the dull ringing tone. It went on and on, until just as he was about to end the call and giving up on his shot in the darkness, she picked up.

_"I got the text, John,"_ she said, slight humour in her voice. _"Fourteen million. That's a lot of money. They really want you dead this time, huh?"_

"I need your help," was all he said, which caused her to fall silent. He allowed his gaze to scan his surroundings, his eyes meeting those who stared back at him.

_"I did tell you to forget this number or I was going to shoot you,"_ she scoffed on the other end. _"You seem to have forgotten that in your old age."_

"You owe me," John cursed. "After everything. I still have your marker."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. He continued; his voice rushed. "And I know that you hate me. But I _need_ your help, and I'm claiming it."

_"What if I follow through with my plan?"_ she mused thoughtfully.

"Of killing me?" John asked. "I wouldn't blame you."

_"You're really up shit's creek without a paddle, aren't you?"_ she asked, her voice growing serious. _"What did you do?"_

John started moving again, beckoning the dog to follow him with a whistle. They began to lightly run against the harsh downpour as he figured out whether to tell her the truth or keep it from her. He decided on the former. "I shot Santino in the head. On Continental Grounds."

_"Holy shit,"_ escaped her mouth, and then after a beat, she let out a small chuckle. _"He was an asshole. I'm assuming he came back to claim your marker?"_

"Yep," he said. "Ordered me to kill his own sister."

_"He never had a backbone, did he?"_ she responded with a scoff. _"Had other people do his dirty work for him."_

"Will you help?"

_"Did you?"_ she bypassed his question, and he noticed her tone was softer and vulnerable.

"I didn't kill Gianna," John confirmed to her. "She wasn't going to let anyone take her death away from her."

She let out a sigh. _"Defiant to the end. Or incredibly stubborn."_

"Will you help?" he asked again, more urgently this time.

He could see her in his head: holding the phone to her ear as she paced the apartment, her gaze on the downpour outside her window. He could tell she was biting her lip and pondering whether he was worth risking her life for. He knew she would be hesitant – who wouldn't? – but that she was thinking about it. He knew her in every way. Her words were like bullets, but her heart was warm.

_"Depends,"_ she said. _"What do I get out of it?"_

"A promise."

_"A promise means nothing in this world, John. You know that."_

"But _I_ mean it," John responded. "Surely that means something."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then he heard her sigh.

_"Fine. When do you need me?"_

"Thank you, Annabelle," he whispered, genuinely. "Can you be at the Continental in ten?"

_"Make it five,"_ she said, then ended the call.

. .. .

Annabelle Vivienne Huntington was the apple of her father's eye.

Winston had been promised a son but when he was handed a bundle after the twenty or so hours of his wife's labour, he had gotten quite the surprise. A screaming new-born with a set of lungs on her had been wrapped up in a pink blanket. He had stared at her in almost disbelief; even the doctor had told them that they were expecting a boy, but she had been a surprise in every sense.

Tiny fingers had curled around his pinky finger, the cries and screaming having quietened at the human contact and warmth he was providing her with. He had watched his daughter with as much wilderment as she watched him with, with brand new eyes blinking at the light and at what was to be her new world. Her legs would kick occasionally against the restraint of the tight swaddle, looking for a bit of resistance in the material. He was scared to hold her, in case he broke her, but his heart had opened, and he silently promised to keep her safe no matter what.

But one thing was certain, she was going to break his heart.

Winston knew it as soon as her large blue eyes focussed on his for the very first time.

And in that moment, as John Wick approached the Continental to find her standing there, she had broken her father's heart and betrayed him for the man she loved.

John took in her frame and her appearance. It was a little different from the last time he had seen her. Her short, curly, brown hair was now longer, straighter and blonder, the rain darkening the honey shade and causing her curls to spring back to life despite her trying to hide her hair under a hood. Her attire was no different however, and as she held her leather jacket close to her body, he took one last glance of her with her unaware of his gaze upon her.

She turned then and watched him approach her, the steel grey dog beside him, and faltered. He caught her reaction to the mere sight of him, but he made no movement, out of respect to her, to let her know that he had seen her falter.

"I was expecting you to not be here," John commented as he slowed, his muscles protesting against him.

"You look like shit," she raised her eyebrows at him as she observed him. "The suit remains slightly untouched, which always surprised me even then."

He pulled out a coin from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She glanced at it for a moment then back at him.

"I don't want to be bought, John," Annabelle told him with a furrow to her brow. "You needed a friend. I'm not going to take that off you, and you can't expect me to."

He placed it back in his pocket and glanced down at his dog. The dog sat down despite the wet ground.

"No," she then said, with disbelief in her voice. "You called me to look after a dog?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't need help," John said, looking back at her.

"_A dog," _she said slowly, as if the words were not of her native tongue.

"You forgotten how to form words now?" John smirked, then watching as she rolled her eyes at him, he stopped. "I rescued him. He was going to be put to sleep. I need… him to be safe, if I don't come back."

Annabelle looked at John – truly looked at him – and felt herself falter again. The very fact that he had said it himself showed her just how serious he was. She saw the grief in his eyes, the sorrow that clung to his heart like an entity, and the burden on his shoulders weighing him down. Though he looked like the John she knew, or had known, she could tell he had been dealt a hand and it had turned his whole life upside down.

"What happened to you?" Annabelle asked, her voice soft.

He avoided her gaze, the burn of his stare moving from her and back down at his dog. He composed himself after a moment then shrugged his shoulders. "It's a story for another time."

She simply nodded, knowing there might not be another time. "What's your plan? Do you have one?"

John bowed his head, his wet hair falling into his face. He combed it back slick against his head with his fingers.

"You don't have one, do you?" Annabelle whispered; her worries being confirmed. "John, they're going to kill you. This is serious… this is not—"

"I know," John whispered, distant. "Hey, at least I'll be out of your hair soon."

Annabelle could only watch him with an indescribable sadness in her eyes.

"But I'm going to fight," he whispered, reassuring her. "I'm going to fight until I have nothing left."

"I can help with that," she said, her voice desperate. "I can do more. Just say the word—"

"—no," John said softly, with a shake of his head, a moment of remembrance passing between them. "This is my fight. You are already doing me a great service by looking after my dog, and I already owe you my life for that."

He glanced at his watch, tilting his wrist to him. He had less than forty minutes before his time was up and his life depended on every single minute.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

The calm before the storm was somewhat pleasant.

He wasn't sure how he was expected to feel, but he knew this was not normal. He should be angry, bitter and frustrated at the world. But he felt at peace, as if Helen was offering him some comfort beyond the veil.

Annabelle pulled her jacket open and pulled out a glock and handed it to him. He hesitated before he took it, bowing his head in gratitude.

"You better come back," Annabelle said after a moment. "And if you don't then I'll kill you myself."

John smirked at that. "Is that a promise?"

Annabelle smirked, then shook her head.

"I'll be seeing you, _Belle_," John whispered, watching as the use of her nickname causing her heart to break even more. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

She softened her face and nodded sadly. "I'll be seeing you, John."

And then, with a blink, John Wick – the man, the myth, the legend – was gone.

. .. .

The Continental welcomed her home like an old friend.

Though the reception was anything but. Her appearance after so long caused the attention to move towards her, and they watched as she walked down the long and narrow foyer towards the front desk with John Wick's dog beside her feet. Charon, a familiar face, watched her approach him with a genuine smile despite the sense of hostility in the air.

"Hello Ms Huntington," Charon said with a smile. "How may I assist you today?"

"I need a room for the night," she told him.

"Do you require boarding for the dog?" Charon asked, his gaze falling onto the familiar dog. As he raised his gaze onto the woman once more, he knew John Wick had called her.

Annabelle shook her head. "That won't be necessary. He'll be with me for the night."

Charon nodded. "And will you be dining with your father this evening?"

"Do you think that's wise, Charon?"

Charon considered the options for her. After a moment, he sighed. "How did this transpire this way?"

"Tu en sais plus que moi," she said with a shrug.

Charon simply hummed in response and pulled out a set of keys from the drawer of the reception desk. She furrowed her brow.

"The penthouse, ma'am," Charon told her, dropping the keys into her hand. "I will put you under a different name so that your father won't know that you are under his roof."

"Thank you, Charon," she mustered up her best smile. "Will you notify me if he comes looking for me?"

"Mister Wick?"

She shook her head. "My father. I understand John is—"

"—excommunicado," the voice of Winston came from behind her. "Yes, you'd be correct. May I ask what you are doing here?"

Annabelle smirked at Charon before she shook a deep breath to steady herself. She turned around and allowed her gaze to wash over the familiar frame of her father. Everything about her was her mother, but her height was her father's.

"I'm getting a room for the night," Annabelle explained. "That's not against the rules, right?"

"You abandoned this life, Annie. You choose to leave this world." Winston met her gaze for the first time. "Those privileges of being within this world was stripped from you as soon as you turned your back on me."

"I didn't turn my back on _you_," Annabelle raised her eyebrows, a defiant teenage rebellion peeking through her poised form. "You did that all by yourself, _father_."

"Are you helping him?" Winston asked, his voice stern in a fatherly manner. "Because I'm hoping that dog you have with you is not John Wick's. I don't have to look at it to know that it is."

Annabelle pondered for a moment. "If I was helping him then surely I wouldn't be here?"

Winston raised his eyebrows before sighing. He pulled out his Nokia phone and dialled the all too familiar number. After one ring, she heard John's voice on the other end. "Have you roped my daughter into helping you, John?"

Annabelle shook her head, ran her tongue along her teeth in aggravation. She scraped her teeth along her bottom lip and turned to Charon who was watching the awkward father and daughter reunion. She pulled a coin out and slid it across the table to him.

"Boarding for the dog, please," she told Charon, who simply nodded and input the data. "Make sure he's safe."

"What are you doing?" Winston's voice filled her ears, knowing that the question was towards her and not the man on the other end of the phone.

She simply scoffed and shook her head. "Call it off. And I'll return."

Her father fell into silence. Then shook his head. "I can't just call it off. He killed someone on Continental Grounds. If you did the same, I'd hang you up to dry too."

That was all she needed to hear, before turning back to look at her father. Winston stood defiant as his daughter searched his eyes.

"I know you would," Annabelle sighed. "I wouldn't expect anything different from you."

"Ah, if it isn't my daughter," Winston commented sadly. "Forever breaking my heart with her betrayal."

"Tell John that his dog will be safe," she told her father. "And tell him to say the word."

"What word?" Winston asked, which caused the man on the other end of the phone call to falter. There was mumbling on John's side, and Winston furrowed his brow as he repeated his word: "Barcelona. What does Barcelona mean?"

Annabelle allowed a smile to etch across her face, her mind racing with memories of them together in Barcelona: laying together in bed, legs entwined and hearts racing; dancing in the cobbled streets as music played around them; the feeling of freedom and love within their hearts. She nodded mostly to herself and smiled at her father. "Goodbye, father."

"If you walk out there then you are excommunicated, too," Winston sighed, terror in his voice. "If you choose John, you are not my daughter anymore."

Annabelle faltered then and nodded sadly. "You decided that years ago though, didn't you?"

"The life you've made for yourself will crumble down around you," Winston warned her as she passed him.

"Sometimes something is worth giving up," Annabelle told him quietly. "And other times, something's worth saving."

And with that, Winston and the rest of the inhabitants of the hotel watched her leave in a stunned silence.


	2. 1:2

CHAPTER TWO

. .. .

Good as Hell

. .. .

Annabelle pulled her hood back onto her head as the raindrops fell aggressively from the darkened sky. Its turbulent and stormy look offered her no comfort, and she wondered if the world was responding to the current crisis of the underworld.

She had felt it in her bones at his voice on the phone, knowing that he was calling her for a reason. The warning she had made to him regarding forgetting her number had been made with bitterness and anger in her heart, and though it still stood, she knew he wouldn't just be calling to catch up on life. Things between them had soured over the years, and their loss of contact had been the conclusion to their partnership and friendship.

He had respected her warning for the last eight years, but he never forgot about her. His life with Helen had been one so different from his life within the world he was so used to. She had shown him how to be normal, how to feel free from the restraints and paranoia that the underworld instilled in him. She had breathed life into him, and Annabelle hated her for taking him away from her.

Annabelle wouldn't know Helen from any other woman that passed her by in the street, and she was grateful that John had respected her reasons. His life was changing right in front of her, and so, she took it upon herself to remove herself from his life completely. It was easier that way. In a way, she needed him to hate her, but she knew he never would. She almost tried to force herself to hate him, but again, she knew she never would.

Their last mission together had confirmed to each other that things between them were different. Their professionalism never faltered but their emotions did. They were injured badly, and though neither of them were to blame, Winston had stepped in and blamed John for hurting his daughter in every sense. John had known what he meant by that and took that as an opportunity to hand in his final resignation.

He knew that he had failed her, by putting her in danger and in harm's way. He had allowed his mind to cloud with the outside world, of Helen, of their life together. The bullet had ripped through Annabelle before he had realised, and he had been too late to pull her away from it. She had fallen, and he had grabbed her just before she crashed to the ground. But he had failed his promise to Winston of keeping her safe.

And she had made the warning in haste, so she would make it easier for him to leave that world behind, to leave her behind. It was more so to make it easier for her than for him to know that what they had and shared together had come to an end.

She heard the door to the Continental Hotel open and close, and she turned, seeing her father on the steps, protected from the downpour.

"One last chance, Annabelle," he called out to her, his phone in his hand.

"Call it off," she responded, urging her father once more.

Winston shook his head, regrettably. "I can't do that. You know that. He killed someone here. I cannot make different rules for him."

Annabelle wiped the droplets from her face, a mixture of tears and rain, and shook her head.

"He's never going to love you," Winston spoke, knowing his words would sting her. "Even with his wife gone, he's never going to love you."

She only knew a little about what had happened to Helen; it had come up in conversation with her father on a few occasions, but she never pried. It wasn't her place to say anything. She knew she was unwell, but she didn't know just how sick she was, and if she had gotten better. And her father never told her despite his many offerings to do so.

"I don't need his love," she told him, defiantly. "And the fact that you think I'm doing this to gain that then you're mistaken."

"What does Barcelona mean?" Winston narrowed his gaze at her, and faltered at the knowledge that his daughter stood before him was no longer the young teenager with a crush, but was a strong, determined and confident young woman who had loved so greatly, and who had known indescribable loss in her thirty years of being on this earth.

She moved her gaze away from him, and stared at a couple crossing the road, hand in hand, their laughter filtering through the air. She watched them for a moment, with them oblivious to the attention they were receiving.

"I've always wanted to go there," she told him, relieving him of the true meaning of the place.

Winston furrowed his brow and tilted his head in confusion. "You never mentioned that to me before."

"Another thing you don't know about me," Annabelle bit her lip and shrugged, as if she was used to it. "I have to go now."

"Annie, please…" he walked down the steps and came to stand in front of her. "Don't make me do this."

She observed the phone in his hand and let out a soft chuckle. "Do what you have to do. But just be warned, the people that come after us will die. Every single one of them will be dead. I will make sure of that."

"Even after all this time, you're still loyal to him until the bitter end," Winston said, a hint of venom in his voice. "Good luck out there. He's going to get you killed."

And with a crumbling façade and a heavy heart, she turned her back on her father for the last time and walked through the streets of New York City.

. .. .

The blade had sliced into his collarbone.

The blood stained his once crisp white shirt in a crimson liquid, seeping into every fibre. He bit back a groan and kept moving through the darkening streets of the city, still aware of the attention he was receiving and almost biting back a smirk at the fact that he still had time. One impatient assassin had met his end but had wounded him in his attack; but that wasn't going to stop John Wick.

He stole a glance at his feet, expecting to see his trust companion. But when he saw nothing but his reflection in the puddles, he felt sadness pierce his heart. He was safe in the Continental and for him, that meant everything.

A vibration against his leg captured his attention and he pulled out his cell phone. _Belle is calling_ filled the screen. He flipped it open and placed it to his ear.

_"Where are you?"_

"You're making a mistake, Belle," John answered, curtly.

_"Don't do that," _she ordered him. _"Don't agree with him."_

"Why are you doing this? You've already helped me."

_"You never gave me a marker back," _she said quickly. _"Where are you?"_

"I'm heading to Doc's," he lowered his voice, aware of the unwanted attention around him.

_"Are you hurt?"_

Her voice was concerned, and he allowed it to linger in his mind for a small moment. He remembered the time he'd gotten clipped by a bullet, and the fear in her eyes as she witnessed him collapse and crash to the ground. She had unloaded her clip into the assailant who had shot him, going overboard with the kill as she feared John to be dead. She had raced over to him in panic, adrenaline coursing through her body causing it to tremble. He remembered how her hands were cool and shook as she pulled him to her, and had taken him in her arms and had yanked his shirt up to check the wound. The bullet had merely skimmed him, the force of it having knocked him off his feet, but he hadn't been hurt in the way she believed.

He had watched her look at him then, truly look at him, and she had kissed him in that moment. Her worry had overwhelmed her and had caused her to respond in such a way. She had believed that he was dying, and she would have to live a life without him.

Her eyes had been tearful, her face was pale, and she had shown him just how scared she was at the thought of losing him.

He had kissed her back more passionately, knowing just how close he had been to dying, to having their fears come true. _If the bullet had been more to the right, he was gone. _

_"Are you hurt?" _she repeated, urgently now.

"A little," he answered honestly. "Someone was impatient and jumped me."

Annabelle was silent, but he sensed her fear over the phone. He was quick to reassure her. "I'm fine, Belle. Just stings a little, that's all."

"Your 'little' is often way bigger, John," she commented, and he hummed in agreement. "You have twenty-nine minutes. Will you get to Doc's in time?"

"I'll be pushing it," John told her with a sigh. "Shit… I need to go. There's more—"

"—Be careful, John."

"Doc's," he ordered. "Head to Doc's. Don't come find me. I'll be there."

And with that, the call disconnected, and she could only imagine what was happening. She pulled her jacket tighter around her and headed towards her location; she was able slip in and out of bystanders as they milled around, the rain not causing them to head inside and wait for the downpour to stop. Her mind wandered to John, and her worry – one that had been quiet for years – was beginning to rear its ugly head once more.

She allowed her mind to distract her, and before she knew it, she was headed down the street towards Doc's. The apartment building was hidden in darkness, but his light was on. She pulled open the heavy door and raced up the stairs, her boots pounding against the steps echoing around her. Once she reached his apartment, she pulled out her cell-phone once more to check to see if John had contacted her, but when no messages or missed calls came up, she knocked against the metal door.

She waited a moment before the latch was pulled across. The Doctor met her gaze with confusion at first, and then a smile that reached his eyes etched across his face. He slammed the latch closed and then unlocked the many locks of the door and heaved it open.

"Is that Little Annie?" he asked, the smile never once leaving his face.

She simply nodded and allowed herself to be pulled into a hug. She was aware of her damp clothing, but he didn't seem to mind.

"I haven't seen you in such a long time, my dear," Doc told her. "What brings you here now? Are you hurt?"

"No, it's not me," she replied, and hesitated. "It's—"

A grunt bounced off the walls causing Annabelle to react in defence. She knew John would be headed towards them soon, but she couldn't take any chances. Anyone could've spotted her or received a warning from Winston to take her back to him; so, she slowly knelt down and grabbed the handle of a ridged blade from the inside of her boot and slid it out. She motioned for the Doctor to head back inside and bolt the door shut whilst she found a darkened corner.

As one more filled her ears, she noticed that it hadn't moved from its previous position, and with a furrowed brow and a heart beating violently against her chest, she went in search for it.

Her retirement from the underworld had served her well, and though it had been years since she was in any situation like this one, she felt the exhilaration course through her body and cause her skin to cover in goosebumps.

Annabelle went back the way she came, her feet making the reverse journey. She made sure the sound of her boots couldn't be heard, the echo of them being a distant memory.

She slithered down the steps more quickly, her panic beginning to set in now. She came to the second floor and came to a halt.

And that was when she saw him.

Unconscious on the steps of the stairwell with blood staining the cement beneath him. His hair was covering his face, but she saw how his arm was outstretched, his hand reaching the next step up.

"John," she hissed, observing his every movement – or lack of. She allowed herself to lower herself to the ground, her bottom connecting with the step. "Don't die now…"

Annabelle took a deep breath and closed the gap between them, reaching him in a blink. She pushed him gently onto his back, aware of the uncomfortable positioning of his body against the stairs. The movement caused him to stir, and reach instinctively for his gun, which she blocked by holding his wrist tightly.

"It's Annabelle," she whispered to him. "It's _Belle_…"

His eyes flickered open then, and through the blood that slid into his eyes, he saw her familiar face. She wasn't a threat, and so he handed her the gun to which she took quickly, slipping it into her waistband.

"This wasn't your definition of little, right?"

He shook his head against the deafening sound penetrating his head. "More," was all he said, and she nodded, pulling him up from the ground.

"I need you to work with me, okay?" she said, to which he nodded against the pain. His head lolled forward, his body well and truly working against him. She took his dead weight quickly and efficiently, and with a breath, hauled him up the stairs.

His body was resisting, limbs weakened and making it harder for her. His foot would be stuck on the step behind them, and she would have to adjust herself to pull it up to their step by stepping down herself before resuming their journey upwards.

"—sorry," he grunted once they reached the Doctor's floor. "You… can… get… out of this…"

"What, and leave you here to defend yourself like _this?"_ Annabelle scoffed and shook her head. "Like that's going to happen."

She pounded her fist against the metal door. There was a small commotion on the other side, but the latch was pulled across, and the Doctor witnessed the state of John with saddened eyes.

"I know this is going to be tough," Annabelle told him. "But we need help. And we trust you."

The Doctor glanced between them for a moment before shutting the latch, and unlocking the door.

"Come," he ushered them into the room. Once they were inside and John had been taken to the examination table, he pressed the subject further. "Is it true? What they say about Mister Wick? He's excommunicado?"

Annabelle threw a look in John's direction and nodded. "Yes. But not yet," she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "He still has fifteen minutes before that."

"I'll see what I can do in that time," the Doc told her. "But—I must warn you, Miss Huntington, that I will stop if I run out of time."

Annabelle could only nod at him before he started working on John who was fading in and out of consciousness.


End file.
